


A Grand Gift

by BlushingNewb



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Fluff, Inexperienced Sherlock, Johnlock Gift Exchange, M/M, Patient John, Romance, Smut, Valentine's exchange
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 07:36:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlushingNewb/pseuds/BlushingNewb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has been engaging in some stranger-than-usual behavior around John, who does his best to step back and allow his friend to express himself. Awkwardness ensues, though, because the course of true love never did run smooth...</p><p>A johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day Exchange fic!</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Grand Gift

**Author's Note:**

  * For [profoundamoeba](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=profoundamoeba).



> For http://profoundamoeba.tumblr.com/ based on their prompt for the johnlockchallenges gift exchange. Profoundamoeba requested, "One awkwardly flirting as the other waits for them to get what they are trying to say out," and I have done my best to depict John and Sherlock becoming more comfortable with one another. There are some bumps along the road, of course, but all's well that end's well, as the saying goes. 
> 
> Thank you for reading! As always, comments and concrit welcome.

A Sherlock-less flat was almost always a clue to John Watson that mischief was afoot. The emptiness of 221B indicated that the world's only consulting detective was 1) on a case without John or 2) associating with his homeless network or 3) at Bart's, stuffing body parts into a take-away bag. But this time, John's suspicions should have been drawn to the soiled pot in the kitchen and the intensely pleasant scent permeating the flat. The doctor was tired and cranky, so his powers of observation were somewhat impaired - an old man had coughed sputum directly onto his smock earlier and had become increasingly belligerent when John asked him to inhale into the spirometer, finally flinging it at the nurse before pulling a packet of fags from his pocket.

John needed, no, craved a bath. After grabbing his robe from upstairs, he unceremoniously shed his shirt and trousers in the hall on the way to the bathroom.

When he jerked aside the shower curtain, reaching for the tap, a surprising tableau met his eyes. The candle he had lit the last time - store brand, very little remained - had been replaced by a lush black pillar in an ornate dish. A small, silver lighter lay next to it, and John crooked his head. The aromatherapy candle was unused and John upended it to read the label:

"Eros."

Good God. For all that John was a thrifty man, he had his own aspirations of luxury, and he knew the Alchemy line started at upwards of 40 quid. Well, waste not, want not.

It gave off a sensual, heady scent, and as John relaxed into the steaming water, it reminded him of fine Bourbon and polished mahogany. Violin rosin and long white fingers and tight shirts...er, perhaps not.

Or...

Lately John had been the recipient of an increased amount of fixed stares, of grey eyes focused on him while he pretended not to notice. There had been the time in the kitchen when he felt the hairs at the back of his neck raise and he turned sharply to catch Sherlock looking away from him with a delicate blush on those ridiculous cheekbones. Something was shifting between them, but in a changing age, the wisest course of action was to keep calm and carry on. It would be a welcome change, though, Sherlock was the person he cared most for in the whole world and it had really been a long time since...

John's eyes fell upon a unfamiliar clear bottle perched on the corner of the tub. This one had no label and John had no choice but to open it and sniff to determine its contents. The fragrance was thick without being overpowering and he could detect vanilla, sandalwood and perhaps bergamot. Reassured that it was simply bath oil and not snake venom, he poured out a small amount of the oil onto his forefinger. It was warm to the touch and slid down gently to coat his finger and trickle over his knuckle - he recalled that 221B had smelled particularly lovely when he walked in. Did Sherlock make this for him?

John tipped a slightly more generous helping into his palm. He was practically surrounded, no bombarded, by aromatic information drawing him to a single conclusion and his body was wholeheartedly committing itself to the results.

"Well, Sherlock, this is a pleasant surprise," John murmured to himself.

The bath oil was entirely suitable for a wide variety of purposes, as it turned out.

* * *

John judged that the outcome of The Adventure of the Erotic Bathing Accoutrements was most satisfying. Neither his nor Sherlock's forte was verbal communication about relationship boundaries, but John nevertheless looked forward to the gradual changes and the possible courting? with anticipation. If the bath oil and candle were anything to go by, this would be sensual, cerebral and successful. John's expectations were to be completely dashed on all but one of those categories.

* * *

Three mornings later, John walked downstairs to find Sherlock perched on a stool, stirring something in a Petri dish. A tube of steaming green liquid was fixed in position over the flame from a Bunsen burner and Sherlock merely grunted a greeting at John. As he took a seat in his chair, he felt the scrutiny of eyes from the kitchen and heard a thump. When he turned to investigate the noise, he saw Sherlock bending over gracefully in his tight trousers, bum jutting high in the air,

_god, the arse on that man_

before he righted himself, a book in hand. That's when the whole thing turned comical, because on his way up Sherlock's curly hair caught the stirring rod in the Petri dish, the Petri dish bumped into the Bunsen burner, the green liquid fell into the Petri dish and exploded in a mess of yellow smoke and acrid stench, the flame from the Bunsen burner set the dusty papers alight (why, why did Sherlock do this in their flat, again?) and the papers caught the book in Sherlock's hand on fire.

"Shit! Shit!" Sherlock yelled, dropping the book and flapping his hands at the smoke. John ran for the fire extinguisher and Sherlock snatched the fire blanket up from underneath the table to smother it.

When John returned, extinguisher in hand, it was to a sweating and smoke-stained Sherlock, who eyed the mess with a scowl. There were yellow stains on the front of his shirt and one of his cuffs was torn.

"I guess that's not what you had in mind?" John asked.

Sherlock refused to meet his eyes and John was delighted to see a pink flush spreading upwards from his chest.

"That wasn't...well, sure, it was one of the possibilities, amongst many," he mumbled, staring down at his feet.

"I'll just leave you to it, then," said John brightly.

* * *

"John! Come here!" came a muffled voice.

"What now? Wait, where are you?"

John was downstairs in his chair, attempting to read an article in last month's medical journal. He had been halfway to a very pleasant dream about a warm afternoon by the sea, where he and Sherlock were both eating buttered crumpets. John loved buttered crumpets and resolved that he would have some that evening, to hell with conventional dinner fare. The voice sounded like it was coming from upstairs.

The response was nearly unintelligible but John thought he recognized the word "attic." He went up to the third floor and, bypassing the door to his room, ascended the small spiral staircase into the attic. When he emerged, he saw Sherlock pointing a torch upwards at an overhanging light fixture with a broken bulb. He held an adjustable stepladder in his other hand.

"Ah, good. Mrs. Hudson asked me to fix this for her and I can use your assistance. Here, hold the ladder."

"Uh-huh. This hardly seems like the kind of thing you'd need my help with."

"Safety first, John. I can trust you to keep it sturdy."

Sherlock clambered up the ladder, squeezing John's shoulder on his way up and throwing him an inviting grin punctuated with a wink. When he handed down the broken bulb to exhange for the fresh one, he let his fingers stroke along John's palm, and as Sherlock screwed in the fresh bulb, John admired the view...he would almost swear the man wasn't wearing any pants...

When Sherlock was three-quarters of the way back down, he clasped John's hand and threw him a coy glance from underneath his lashes. As a result of this dalliance he missed the step below his foot and his hold on John's hand. After his chin smacked onto a rung of the ladder, he slid bumpily downward and collapsed on the floor with a thud.

"Godammit!" he roared, now lying flat on his back. He slammed a fist down and winced; his chin was bleeding and his arms were skinned all the way up to his elbows. John cringed in sympathy and let go of the ladder to prop his friend up. Given the manner of his rough descent, it was highly likely that John would be digging splinters out of him for days to come.

"Sherlock, stay still, let me just have a look," John soothed as he looked for permanent damage. Fortunately there were no serious injuries but the wind had definitely been taken out of Sherlock's sails. He fairly drooped and allowed John to lead him downstairs to the sofa with an arm around him. As John dabbled peroxide on his wounds, Sherlock settled back into the sofa with clenched teeth, demonstrating all the warning signs of one of his legendary black moods.

John laid a hand on his forehead and gently tipped him back, presumably to reach his chin. However, after laving the wound with disinfectant, he shifted his fingers to cup his cheek until Sherlock met his gaze.

"Go on, laugh."

"Why would I laugh, Sherlock?"

"It's supposed to be hilarious when someone falls on their arse from off a ladder."

"I'm just glad you're ok and I'm glad that didn't happen to Mrs. Hudson. If it makes you feel better I guess I could laugh at you now, but I'm thinking I'll just put on the kettle instead. Sound alright to you?"

Sherlock's lip quirked at the corner.

"You always surprise me, Dr. Watson."

"That's me all over - man of mystery, medical advisor to consulting geniuses and holder of rickety ladders. How do you feel about crumpets?"

* * *

John could tell that things were coming to a head when Sherlock explained that they would be going to Nippon, one of the area's most pretentious sushi restaurants, for dinner. When John met Sherlock in the sitting room, he knew that he was standing on a precipice in their relationship and he earnestly hoped it wouldn't be too much longer before he could fling himself off.

Sherlock had donned his newest suit with a dull scarlet dress shirt, and his fair skin nearly glowed in contrast - he was paler than usual, save for a splotch of pink over each cheek. John, suddenly conscious of his outdated jacket and striped tie, felt his mouth go dry over the startling beauty of the man next to him.

"After you," Sherlock said, extending one arm toward the stair.

"With pleasure, " John grinned, deliberately brushing his shoulders against Sherlock's chest before bounding down the stairs.

* * *

For all of John's apprehensions about its poshness, the restaurant was comfortably luxurious. He and Sherlock were seated across from one another in a secluded alcove of the tatami room, shoes off. Sherlock had insisted on ordering sake, and was currently regaling him with the owner's background story.

"....and purchased this restaurant. You're not without knowledge," John rolled his eyes but Sherlock didn't notice, "so even you are probably aware that the fugu or blowfish produces one of the world's deadliest neurotoxins. Sushi chefs must be subjected to years of training before they are allowed to prepare this dish - it's usually served as sashimi in an attractive fan-like pattern. Its preparation and consumption is strictly prohibited in the EU."

John thought to himself that there were few times he had seen Sherlock so disappointed.

"I was on holiday in San Francisco, fact-finding about their Zodiac Killer, when I got a call from one of mummy's friend's daughters, Victoria Trevor. She hadn't been entirely without her merits in school and now she was working as an attorney - mummy had emailed her that I was in the states on holiday. Her client, a very prestigious sushi chef, had just been suspended due to inadequate preparation of fugu, and he was being villainized in the media. The victim was a celebrated neuroscientist who was leading research in treating Parkinson's disease. Chef Kenji was adamant that he had followed proper protocols."

Sherlock paused to hover his lips over the cup of sake - it was still hot - and as he drank he caught John's eye. John stared back at him with a smile teasing the corners of his mouth and tried not to look at Sherlock's throat. The bastard hadn't bothered buttoning the top of his shirt tonight, either, but John made a valiant effort to focus.

"Didn't it seem weird to you that a neuroscientist died from fugu poisoning?"

Sherlock beamed at him.

"You are a marvel, Dr. Watson. I would have solved it in half the time with you by my side. Here's how it happened. Dr. Patel and her colleague, Dr. Sanchez, went to Tokyo Fukuji to celebrate her birthday. Witnesses reported that the two sat next to one another-" Sherlock flicked his eyes across the table to John, "- and Sanchez extolled the virtues of risk and encouraged Patel to order some fugu. They both looked like they had come from work; Sanchez still had his satchel in the corner of the booth. The waiter delivered a plate of fugu sashimi to Patel and he saw her take two bites. Within ten minutes she was already experiencing the symptoms of second stage tetrodotoxin poisoning and in another five she was dead. It appeared that she had eaten all of the sashimi in a very short amount of time, but she was overheard saying, 'I haven't had anything to eat all day!'"

"Well, I can certainly see why that might have seemed simple. But it wasn't - how come?" John asked.

"The first thing that stood out to me was how very quickly Patel had begun displaying symptoms. Even those who have been poisoned from eating the liver of the fugu may not have experienced symptoms until twenty minutes after consumption. But with all of the fish seemingly consumed, the only way to verify that the fish had been improperly prepared was to test the contents of Patel's stomach. Results were still pending and I decided to visit the scene; the location where the two had sat was rather secluded, much like this table here."

Sherlock quickly gave him a sidelong glance, and John felt a gentle pressure along his ankle as Sherlock's foot swept against his. John inhaled slowly, and when Sherlock realized that his advances were welcome, he ran his toes along John's calf before resting them against his tibia. With a small sigh of contentment, Sherlock continued,

"While that was the only thing of note inside, I saw a fat little moggy grooming itself in the alley. Bold fellow, stared straight back at me, and one of the waiters smoking out there saw me and laughed. 'That's Nyan,' he said. 'Cute, isn't he? He's pretty brave, too. Sometimes he'll even meet the customers up front, begging them for leftovers. He doesn't always know what he's doing though - when the ambulance was here for that woman, he hung around the driveway, following that man around. Pestered him.'"

"Oh," John breathed. "That's it, that's how you put it together."

Sherlock grinned back at him and slid his foot up John's leg to briefly stroke alongside his knee before removing it. He cleared his throat and steepled his fingers.

"Why would the cat follow Sanchez around unless he had carried some food away with him? I knew he had brought a briefcase to the restaurant - with that detail in mind, the rest was obvious. We checked the dumpster outside of his house and found the rest of the fugu, and though it was rotted, it tested negative for tetrodotoxin. The fact that he had the fugu gave the police reason to seize his lab records. It turned out that Sanchez had stolen all of Patel's latest research; she had found a revolutionary new treatment for Parkinson's, and he planned to take all the credit for himself. But he was quite ingenious, too - he and a group of other scientists had discovered a new strain of botulinum - type H, the most deadly neurotoxin to date. Like tetrodotoxin, there is no cure for it, but botulinum type H is invariably fatal, as it inhibits synaptic vesicle release, and it acts almost immediately. Sanchez had coated the tip of Patel's chopstick with it."

"Brilliant, Sherlock. You're always...so brilliant," said John, licking his lower lip.

Sherlock's chest hitched and he giggled nervously at John.

"I made sure to give Nyan some maki for his troubles. Victoria told mummy about the case and she made me a month's worth of jammy dodgers."

With his own chopsticks, Sherlock picked up a piece of sushi that had been ignored for some time.

"John, you've been neglecting your dinner. Here, have some," Sherlock said, reaching across the table. "Open up," he murmured, and John complied, staring directly into Sherlock's eyes as he slowly parted his lips for him. 

While John chewed thoughtfully, Sherlock looked down into his own plate.

"I didn't find any new data on the Zodiac Killer - I wish you had been with me. I'm always better with you."

John stretched forward to place his hand over Sherlock's.

"John..."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I have something to say...I want you to know that...you look completely ordinary."

John schooled his face into a blank mask. This was going in an odd direction, but perhaps Sherlock would clarify in time.

"Anyone would see you and think that you're harmless and bland. You wear jumpers, you blend in...but you're like the fugu."

 _What the everloving fuck?_ John thought. He bit his lower lip to keep from snorting, as he could tell that this was intensely difficult for his friend.

"You may not always see very well and you can only run for short distances, but you're absolutely deadly. You're fearsome and terrifying when you're cornered and I don't ever want to be without you."

John's mouth fell open.

"Sherlock...did you...just come onto me by comparing me to a bloody pufferfish?" As soon as he got the words out, he slumped over to his side and shook with laughter. Within a few seconds though, the stricken look on Sherlock's face shut him up. His friend abruptly stood and threw his napkin onto the table.

"Just forget it, John, I don't know what I was thinking!"

He tugged his hand through his curls and shook his head frantically.

"I've gotten witnesses to eat out of my hands but I can't manage to convince the one man I want to...I'm totally rubbish at this...just...sod it all!" He threw his hands up in the air and turned on his heel, pacing quickly away from the alcove in stocking feet.

John, who had so recently been likened to the darting fugu, jumped up and pulled Sherlock to a halt by the back of his jacket.

"You're wrong, I'm always interested in you, you great berk. And have you ever once thought that you're so awkward at this because it's not an act?"

Sherlock stopped struggling and turned slowly to face John, slack-jawed with surprise.

"Ohh! Ohhhh, that's it!" He exclaimed. "John Watson, you always set me straight."

"I certainly hope not," said John, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock groaned. "That was terrible, absolutely awful."

"Well, I'm in good company. Your flirting is also terrible."

John wrapped an arm around his waist and pulled him close, placing his other hand at the nape of Sherlock's neck.

"No more talking now," he said, tugging him down. "Kiss me, you giraffe."

There wasn't any more sushi eaten after this, but a take away box made a rapid appearance and the two beat a hasty retreat back to the flat.

* * *

Sherlock's lips were delicious, firm like ripe peaches. They had made it upstairs and he was currently kissing John against the door like his life depended on it. John gave as good as he got, sliding his tongue against Sherlock's enthusiastically, and for good measure he cupped a hand down around Sherlock's bottom and found it as pleasingly plush as it had appeared. Sherlock let out a low whimper, and that sound went straight to John's cock - he pushed forward against his friend and found him just as hard. Smiling into Sherlock's mouth, he released the hand fisted in his shirt and trailed his fingers down until he could trace the outline of his erect prick through his trousers.

"John," gasped Sherlock, breaking out of the kiss.

"Mmmhmm?" said John, rubbing his palm against him. Sherlock panted and bucked into his hand, then gripped John's wrist. John stilled immediately.

"This is a bit out of my area, but I know it's not out of yours. I don't have your experience with men, well, your experience, period."

John chuckled.

"I figured you knew about that but I never thought you'd be interested. You're really overestimating my expertise, though - there were only two blokes, and, er, it was pretty basic. No bells and whistles, if you catch my drift."

John removed his hand to clasp Sherlock's, and his hand was squeezed in reassurance.

"What about you? You okay with...all this? You're a bloody great kisser, that's for sure."

John placed a peck on his cheek and stroked his hair.

"The kissing...that's from cases," Sherlock said. "But there was a boy in uni...we were at his parent's house and started...touching. His father came in and had some choice words to say about it. Bernard never spoke to me again..."

"What a colossal arse," John breathed. The familiar urge to pummel anyone who hurt Sherlock was rising in his gut.

"Indeed, but I'm no longer troubled by it," John frowned skeptically but let him continue, "He married an heiress some years after but she recently threw him over for the pool boy. He may have emailed me, but you know I keep my security settings pretty high. The email may have gotten inadvertently deleted," John heard the grin in Sherlock's voice.

"But...was that all?" John asked.

"After that, I didn't feel comfortable being physical with others. There's just too much trust involved, a dangerous disadvantage in that kind of vulnerability. For the physical urges there was always masturbation and...I'm sure you can count on one finger the number of friends I have."

"Oh, Sherlock," John sighed, and stroked his face. He pressed a soft kiss to his lips, and said against his warm cheek, "I will always, always be here for you."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered, "you've always been different from the rest."

Sherlock kissed him again, and parted his lips in invitation. John pressed inward once more and they picked up momentum.

"I feel confident, John, if you would like to continue this."

Holy hell, thought John. Confident. Continue. Fuck yes.

"I, er, yeah, I would definitely like to continue."

"Then...my room?"

* * *

John had thought kissing Sherlock was sexy and unbearably erotic. Now he felt like his limbic system was about to overload with sensory information and shut down. They were pressed chest to chest now, snogging lazily in just their pants, as John had insisted on slowing down the pace after explaining to Sherlock how he had already had to imagine digging out an ingrown toenail to refrain from ejaculating. Sherlock had assented, describing how he had only avoided coming in his briefs by recalling "We Wish You a Merry Christmas" as barked by dogs in a minor key.

Sherlock licked the tip of his finger and rubbed it over John's nipple - he let out a low laugh when John writhed against him.

"Do it again and I won't be held responsible for what happens next," John warned.

Sherlock kissed him instead and John reached for the waistband of his pants.

"This alright?"

Sherlock nodded so John pulled his briefs down and goggled. Not much had been hidden from him by the time they got down to their underwear, but the man had a perfectly proportioned cock. It was long, slender and curved slightly to the left; it made an excellent handful. Sherlock thrust up into his grasp and flung his head back.

"John, don't," Sherlock gasped, and John released him.

"Anything you want, love, we agreed. As little or as much."

"No, it's just...it's too good. I won't..." he rallied and met John's eyes. "I don't want to disappoint you."

John gripped his hand and linked their fingers together.

"Sherlock. It has been over six months since I've had sex with anyone. God knows how long it's been since I started thinking about you, only you, every time I wanked. I haven't touched a man in nearly ten years, and that was hardly sophisticated or involved. _You_ are worried about disappointing _me_? You beautiful madman, this is going to be amazing because it's _you_ , even if it lasts for ten seconds, and we've got the rest of our lives to do it as many times as we want. Here, I've got an idea. Do you have any...?"

Before he could even finish his sentence, Sherlock rolled off the bed and opened the top drawer of his nightstand, crooking a finger to beckon John over. Nestled in neat rows were an amazing assortment of condoms and lubes, arranged by colour.

"Sherlock Holmes, you rogue," John muttered appreciatively.

"I thought it wise to be prepared for a variety of outcomes," his friend explained with a seductive smile.

John grabbed one of the small bottles at random and tugged Sherlock back into the bed by his arm.

"On your side," he said, peeling off his own boxers. Sherlock's mouth dropped open and a small (but not too small) part of John jumped up for joy. He wasn't overwhelmingly massive but he knew he had nothing to be ashamed of. John deliberately glanced down at Sherlock's prick and licked his lips slowly.

"Glad you approve, gorgeous. You look pretty good yourself."

"John, c'mon..." Sherlock urged, restlessly shifting his legs.

"Yeah, okay, I'm feeling a bit impatient myself," John said, staring at his lover's well-defined thigh muscles as they flexed. "C'mere," he rolled on his side and wriggled towards Sherlock, still holding the bottle. They met in the middle of the bed and Sherlock tentatively placed his hand on his shoulder. John responded by boldly grabbing his hip and pulling; when their stiffened flesh finally made contact they both shuddered and Sherlock let out a groan. John placed a light kiss on his forehead and smiled at the resultant sigh.

"Gonna make you feel so good," John purred as he poured a helping of lube - raspberry flavoured, as it turned out - into his palm. He quickly slathered some over himself, and once it was warm he slicked Sherlock up from root to tip, teasing him with a few repeated passes. "Never done this before, you know? Want to make us come this way," John said, and he wrapped his hand around both of them.

"Fuck!" Sherlock jerked violently beside him and in his hand and against his cock.

"Ah, love, that's it," John breathed out as they slid against one another. He had been generous with the lube and at about every third stroke there was a soft squelching that urged him to rub faster in the hopes of repeating it. Sherlock, gone wordless but breathing heavily, petted John's hair and caressed a sensitive spot behind his ear.

"God, this feels fucking incredible," John said, trembling. "Will you just look at that," he added, biting his own lip as he watched their cocks rub together; Sherlock's was flushed dark pink at the tip and he was thrusting up into John's hand. The crown of Sherlock's prick grazed over John's frenulum on the upstroke and it felt simply _magnificent_. A spark caught behind his pelvis, expanding outwards with each sweep of his hand, and Sherlock panted noisily in his ear. Long fingers closed over John's and squeezed gently.

"John, I need y..." Sherlock pleaded and the last word became a moan. John felt him shake just as a hot wetness spread down his hand, and the added sensation was too good, too intense, and John came over both their fingers with Sherlock's name on his lips.

* * *

Except for the lingering raspberry scent, it was very nearly a perfect moment. Sherlock turned out to be a possessive cuddler, and John was quite content to lie wrapped up in his arms.

"Won't change much, 'Lock," John said sleepily. "Always been crazy about you. Thought you flirting and...seducing me...was cute."

"Cute?" Sherlock said indignantly, but not too indignantly, because he pulled John closer to him by his bum. "Me? Cute?"

"Yeah, you. I liked it, you making me stuff and...bending over, and all."

Sherlock chuckled and listened to John's breathing. John left nearly two seconds between each breath when he slept in their sitting room, and Sherlock was anxious to see if this would be the case in his bed, too. If Sherlock got his way, John would spend every night in his bed from now on. Their bed.

"John, my John," he said, stroking his hair. Sherlock craned his head down to verify that John was asleep, then he smiled and whispered into his ear, " _takifugu_."

**Author's Note:**

> The title of this work comes from a compliment Holmes gives to Watson in "The Man With the Twisted Lip" - "You have a grand gift of silence, Watson...it makes you quite invaluable as a companion." 
> 
> You can find John's candle here, along with other luxury aromatics: http://www.dlcompany.com/Eros_p_355.html
> 
> Sherlock is the property of the BBC, Mark Gatiss & Steven Moffat. Sherlock Holmes is public domain. My thanks to Arthur Conan Doyle.


End file.
